


from kenora, with love

by alotofthingsdifferent



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Developing Relationship, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Romance, Summer Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-08
Updated: 2016-06-08
Packaged: 2018-07-13 20:48:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7136516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alotofthingsdifferent/pseuds/alotofthingsdifferent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>latta17</b> Can’t wait to visit besty</p><p><b>mikerichards</b> @latta17 your bed is made and ready for you anytime</p>
            </blockquote>





	from kenora, with love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thenorthface](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thenorthface/gifts).



> so [this happened](https://instagram.com/p/BFxc_nkjSWs/), and then I got ideas.
> 
> This fic would not exist without thenorthface, who let me text her about it daily for the past few weeks, and who cheered and encouraged and helped me when I got stuck. You’re an enabler, Kay -- thank you!!! <3
> 
> (And if you haven’t read the RMNB article about Richards being Latta’s hockey hero growing up, run, don’t walk.)

Heading home at the end of a long season is always bittersweet, and this year is no exception. It’s more bitter than sweet, maybe, considering the way things ended, not only for the team, but for Mike himself. Driving out of DC makes his throat go tight -- he has no idea if this is it, if he’s leaving for the last time. He hadn’t been lying at locker cleanout -- the year had been rough, but it really was the best year of his life. He didn’t see the ice time he’d hoped for, but showing up at the rink every day with that group of guys? He can’t imagine it any other way.

 _That might have to change_ , he thinks as he hits the highway, windows down and radio up. Mac had left him with a firm handshake and a promise to be in touch, but Mike isn’t holding his breath. He’d love to be back, of course he would, but the part of him that lives and dies by the game wonders if that’s what’s best for his career.

If he has a career left, anyway.

He shakes his head and turns up the radio. He has a nine-hour drive ahead of him, and he’s not going to spend it agonizing over the future. 

Whatever happens, happens.

**

He spends his first days back in Canada with his family. His brothers annoy the shit out of him a lot of the time, constantly on his ass about something, but it’s good to see them, to spend some time relaxing and catching up, not thinking about hockey. It’s easy and familiar; he feels good.

It’s early Tuesday evening, almost a week after Mike got home, when Richie texts him. He’s in the passenger side of Jimmy’s car when his phone vibrates in his pocket, and he shifts to get it out, the bags of takeout on his lap making it an awkward reach. “Wilson?” Jimmy asks, the corner of his mouth quirking up knowingly. 

Mike looks at his phone and raises an eyebrow, fighting his own smile. “Nope,” he says lightly, “not Willy.” In truth, he and Tom haven’t talked in nearly a week. Mike’s not sure what’s up, why Tom’s been avoiding his texts and tweets, but it’s not that big a deal, he guesses. They’re on top of each other 24/7 during the season, Mike doesn’t blame him for needing some space.

 _Bed’s still all made up when you’re ready to show_ the text reads, a throwback to their Instagram interaction the week before, and Mike does smile then, chuckling under his breath as he replies.

_Aww, you miss me, Richie?_

The typing dots appear for split second before _yep_ pops on up on his screen. _gettin lonely up here on the lake by myself. So i’m extending the invitation, if you’re interested_

Mike pockets his phone when Jimmy pulls the car into the driveway and kills the engine. “Need some help with those, Mikey? Too heavy for ya?” Jimmy chirps as Mike struggles out of the car with dinner. 

“Fuck off,” Mike says cheerfully, and Jimmy laughs, clapping him on the shoulder. He doesn’t let the door slam in his face, either, which must be a first, and he kisses Carol on the cheek before she starts helping Mike with the bags. They settle into an easy conversation over dinner, and when Mike swallows his last bite, he leans back in his chair, hands resting on his stomach. 

“So I think I’m gonna head to Kenora this weekend,” Mike says, as casually as he can manage, and Carol smiles around her fork. 

“Really,” Jimmy says, watching Mike carefully. “And what’s in Kenora?”

“A friend,” Mike says, sitting up a little and clearing his throat. “A teammate, actually. Richie? He’s got a place on the lake, invited me up for the weekend.”

“Good,” Jimmy says. “Won’t have to see your ugly mug around here for three whole days.” Carol slaps him on the arm, and Mike laughs, tossing a balled up napkin at him from across the table.

“Go book your flight before it costs you your entire salary,” Carol tells him, and before he can even say a word about helping clean up, she waves a hand at him. “I got it, get out of here.”

 _Friday soon enough?_ Mike texts when he’s safe behind the closed door of JImmy and Carol’s guest bedroom. He’s been staying with them the past couple days, and as nice as it’s been, he’s already itching to go. 

Richie’s next text is an address, followed by a fish emoji and two beers. 

Mike sends him back a thumbs up and pulls Expedia up on his phone. 

**

He’s up early Friday morning to make the drive to Toronto. The house is quiet, and the sun has barely started shining for the day, but before he can sneak out, he hears Carol whisper his name. 

“I’m sorry,” Mike says quietly. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” she says. “I’ve been up. I made coffee, thought you’d have stolen some.” She smiles at him and makes her way into the kitchen, grabbing a travel mug from the cupboard and filling it for him.

“I was just gonna stop on the way,” Mike says, but she shakes her head and pushes the mug into his hand. 

“Security is insane lately,” Carol says. “You don’t wanna risk missing your flight.”

“Thanks,” he says with a smile. “I’ll, uh -- I’ll see you, I guess.”

“When are you headed back?” she asks, and she’s trying to sound casual, but Mike can hear the leading tone in her voice.

“Uh,” Mike says, rubbing the back of his neck. He’d only booked a one-way, telling himself it was because it was cheaper, and he tells her the same thing, ignoring the way she’s looking at him like she knows him better than that. “So I’ll let you guys know, yeah?” 

“Yeah, do that,” she says with a smirk. “If we need to go get your car, let us know.”

“I won’t be gone _that_ long,” he tells her, and she winks, grabbing her own mug from the counter. 

“Whatever you say, Mike. Have fun, ok?”

“I will,” he says, and slips out the door, his duffle bag full of enough clothes to get him through more than just the weekend -- just in case -- thrown over his shoulder. 

He checks the time -- three hours until his flight -- before pulling onto the highway, leaving Kitchener in the rearview.

**

 _just landed_ Mike sends, six hours, two stops, and four cups of coffee after he’d boarded the first plane. He makes a mental note to chirp Richie about what a pain in the ass it is to get to Kenora and stretches his arms above his head. When he rolls his neck, he winces at the slight cracking sound it makes and lets his head fall back on his seat while the plane taxis to the gate. His phone vibrates where it’s resting on his thigh. 

_i suppose you expect me to pick you up_ Richie texts, and Mike smirks. He hadn’t, actually, he was already planning on grabbing a cab, but:

 _the flight alone cost me a small fortune, so a cab isn’t in the budget_ he says, biting back a laugh when Richie responds.

 _maybe ovi will borrow you some money_ and then _i’m already on the way, though, so just let me know which baggage claim and i’ll see you there_

 _don’t text and drive_ , Mike says, frowny-face emoji and all. _and i didn’t check a bag_.

 _i’ll drive by slowly and you can jump in_ Richie responds, and Mike laughs under his breath, tucking his phone into his pocket and grabbing his bag from the overhead compartment. 

It’s only been a few weeks since they’ve seen each other, and it’s not like this is the first time they’ve hung out, either -- they actually got pretty close during the season, and Richie was there to pull him out of a dark mood whenever he got frustrated with his lack of playing time. So Mike can’t understand the sudden anxious feeling in his stomach, or the way his heart is beating a little faster.

It’s just Richie. 

He follows the slow line of passengers deboarding the plane, apologizing when he hits someone with his bag, and then he’s on the curb, his hands shoved in his pockets while he waits for Richie to pull up. It hits him, then, that he has no idea what Richie drives, what he should be looking for, so when a sleek black pickup pulls up, he takes a step back so he doesn’t get run over. 

The window rolls down, and then there’s Richie, one hand on the steering wheel and a lazy grin on his face. He’s sporting a four-day-old beard (Mike’s spent enough time with him to know what that looks like by now) and a worn white t-shirt, a Caps hat turned backwards on his head. His hair is still long, curls peeking out underneath the brim of the hat. 

“You just gonna stand there and look pretty, or what?” Richie chirps, and Mike can feel the color rising to his cheeks. He raises a hand to flip Richie off, tossing his bag into the bed of the truck and climbing in. There’s an awkward moment when Mike’s not sure what to do -- hug him? Throw him a fist bump or shake his hand? But Richie sighs dramatically and rolls his eyes, throwing an arm around Mike’s shoulders and pulling him in. “Good to see you, man,” he says into Mike’s neck, and Mike swallows around the sudden swell of emotion in his throat. 

Apparently he missed Richie more than he thought (or than he intended to). “You too,” Mike says, and they stay like that, arms wrapped around one another, for a moment longer, until a car behind them honks their horn at them and they break apart, laughing. Richie pulls away from the curb as Mike buckles his seatbelt.

“How was the flight?” Richie asks, eyes on the road, and Mike gives him a look. By the way Richie’s mouth twitches, Mike knows he can see it.

“Just great,” Mike says sarcastically. “Easiest trip I’ve ever made.”

Richie’s mouth twists into a smile. “Glad to hear it,” he says, the asshole, and he laughs when Mike punches him in the shoulder.

They ride in silence after that, and the next thing Mike knows, Richie’s shaking him gently. He opens his eyes and moves to sit up, rubbing at his cheek where it’s numb from having been pressed up against the glass. “You can stay in the car if you want,” Richie says, “but there’s cold beer waiting for us in the house.”

Mike rubs at his eyes and blinks a few times, squinting against the glint of the sun on the lake. Richie’s pictures don’t do this place justice, he thinks. It’s breathtaking.

He grabs his bag from the back and follows Richie into the house, down the hall and into the kitchen, where Richie tosses his keys on the table. “Guest room is the first one on the left,” Richie tells Mike, nodding in the direction of the bedrooms. “Throw your bag in there. You want a shower or anything? I’ll get some meat going on the grill.”

Mike shakes his head. “I’m good,” he says. “Maybe later.” He heads off to the guest room, impressed both by the way Richie made the bed -- there are _throw pillows_ on top of the regular pillows, who knew Richie had it in him? -- and the view of the lake through the large double windows. He leaves his bag at the foot of the bed and toes off his shoes, yanking his socks off, too. It’s warm in the house, even warmer outside, and after spending months in socks and skates, Mike plans on spending as much time as possible barefoot. He wiggles his toes against the cool hardwood floor beneath his feet and unzips his bag, pulling out his favorite tank and changing quickly. 

When he makes his way back to the kitchen, Richie is nowhere to be found, but there’s an unopened bottle of beer on the table that Mike can only assume is for him. He grabs it and wanders into the living room, taking in the “Up North” decor that makes it feel so homey. There’s a large fish mounted above the fireplace and another, smaller one on the opposite wall. He slides open the screen door and steps onto the deck, warm from the sun, to find Richie at the grill, his back to Mike. There’s an open beer on a small table between two chairs, and Mike makes himself comfortable, stretching his legs out in front of him, feet crossed at the ankles.

“Burgers ok?” Richie asks, just as Mike takes a long pull from his beer. “I’ve got other stuff, but I thought this would be easiest tonight.”

“You putting cheese on it?”

Richie snorts and looks over his shoulder. “Wilson put cheese on your burgers for you, Latts?”

“He does my laundry, too,” Mike shoots back, and Richie laughs, shaking his head.

“That’s where I draw the line,” he says. “But yeah. There’s cheese if you want.”

“Thanks,” Mike says, and then it’s quiet outside again. There’s nothing but the sound of the water lapping softly at the shore and the sizzle of the meat on the grill as Richie cooks. 

It’s different than hanging out with Tom or Andre, Mike thinks. Than Schmitty, even, whose mouth is usually going a mile a minute. Not bad different, though. Different in an easy, comfortable way, where Mike knows he doesn’t have to try to impress Richie or make him laugh or entertain him. He can just exist in Richie’s space, breathe the same air, and enjoy his company.

“I have some potato salad in the fridge if you want,” Richie says when he hands Mike his plate. The burger looks amazing and smells even better, and Mike grins.

“Damn, Richie, who knew you could cook such a mean burger?” Richie rolls his eyes and sits down in the chair next to him, balancing his plate on his lap.

“Please,” Richie says. “Once I hit 27 I knew it was time to learn to cook something other than mac and cheese.” He points the neck of his beer in Mike’s direction. “Just you wait, buddy. You’ll be setting the table with fine china and whipping up some eggplant parmesan in no time.”

“Doubtful,” Mike says with a soft laugh, picking up his burger. “Tom hates eggplant.”

Richie makes a face then, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it, but it doesn’t go unnoticed by Mike, who tilts his head and swallows his mouthful of food.

“What?” he asks, and Richie raises an eyebrow. “You made a face.”

“A face,” Richie says, amused. He takes a bite of his own burger, leaving a smear of ketchup at the corner of his mouth, and Mike has the sudden urge to reach between them and thumb it away, so strong that he almost has to sit on his hands to stop himself from doing it. 

Mike nods and take another bite to avoid looking at Richie’s mouth.

“It’s nothing,” Richie says, and swallows a gulp of beer. “Just, y’know. You and Tom, that’s -- what’s going on there?”

It’s nothing that Mike hasn’t been asked before, by his own friends -- non-teammates and teammates alike -- but it’s somehow different coming from Richie, like it carries a heavier weight than it would if it were anyone else. 

“Not you too,” Mike complains, and Richie shrugs, eating his burger and watching Mike out of the corner of his eye, waiting. “Tom’s my best friend,” he says simply. “That’s it. That’s all. Also, you asshole, he has a girlfriend, you think I’m some sort of homewrecker?”

Richie chokes around his food, holding his fist to his mouth and coughing. “No,” he says, his voice strained. Mike hands him his beer and he takes a sip, clearing his throat. “No, man, I think you’re the furthest thing from that, actually. That’s why I asked.” He shrugs. 

“And anyway,” Mike goes on, suddenly desperate for Richie to understand. If Richie doesn’t get Mike and Tom, he doesn’t get Mike, really; at least not this huge part of him and his life. “I don’t even -- it’s not like that. I don’t see him like that, I never have. We’re just friends.” 

“I get that,” Richie says easily. Mike nods once, and that’s that, apparently, because they don’t talk about it anymore after that.

They finish their burgers in silence, then Richie takes Mike’s empty plate from him and disappears into the house for awhile. Mike finds himself wondering if he’s upset about something; if Mike calling him an asshole or making assumptions about what Richie was thinking pissed him off. Richie’s a great guy, but hard to read, and a lot of the time he just shuts down without warning. Mike’s lost in hoping this isn’t one of those times when Richie comes back out onto the deck, a heaping bowl of ice cream in each of his hands. 

“I like dessert,” he says simply, passing Mike a bowl. 

Not shutting down, then.

Good.

**

“I think I’m gonna call it a night,” Richie says, leaning back in his chair and raising his arms above his head, fighting a yawn. His shirt rides up a little, revealing a sliver of smooth, tanned skin, and Mike’s mouth goes a little dry. Months of changing in the locker room have made Mike immune to the occasional flash of skin, but here, away from the rink, it’s different, and Mike finds his mind wandering in a way he hasn’t let it in a long time. After he stretches, Richie leans back in, elbows on the table to put another puzzle piece in place. 

This is how they’d spent most of the evening after dinner: nursing a few beers and making quiet, random conversation over a 1000-piece puzzle Richie had started working on that morning before Mike arrived. Mike’d teased him gently when he saw it -- “Riveting entertainment here, Richie,” -- but he has to admit that it’s got a sort of calming affect that he could get used to. It’s got him thinking about something other than his contract, anyway, so that’s something. 

It’s the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, and it’s not the only one Richie has. There’s a stack of them on the bookshelf behind him, including the Eiffel Tower, the Sphinx in Egypt, and one of the ocean that Mike thinks is probably impossible to finish. None of them are related to hockey, and Mike’s not really surprised. 

“Towels are in the hall closet if you decide you’re ready for a shower,” Richie says as he stands, and Mike shakes his head, finishing the last of his beer, now warm at the bottom of his bottle.

“Nah, I can wait til morning,” Mike says, and waves a hand over the puzzle. “Might hang out here a bit longer, if you don’t mind me working on your masterpiece without you.”

Richie laughs softly and shakes his head. “Have at it, man. It’ll take me weeks without the help.”

 _I could stay for weeks_ Mike thinks, unbidden, and his heart rate kicks up again, as if worried Richie can read his mind or something. “Cool,” he says. “Uh. Guess I’ll see you in the morning then.”

Richie nods and heads off down the hall. Mike holds his breath until he hears the soft _click_ of Richie’s bedroom door closing, then leans back in his chair, spreading his legs wide and staring at the ceiling. He thinks of Tom suddenly, of how he’s seemingly avoiding Mike, no texts or calls or snaps since Mike left DC. Maybe he’s as worried about the contract shit as Mike is, maybe it’s eating at him too, thinking about being apart next year, but still, it bothers Mike that Tom’s not talking to him. 

He lifts his phone, scrolls through social media, likes a few posts on Instagram and checks his texts again, just in case he missed one. There’s nothing, though, and he breathes out a sigh, setting his phone face-down on the table and dragging his fingers through the loose puzzle pieces. He yawns, the long day finally beginning to wear on him, and manages to fit a few more pieces into place before his eyelids start to get heavy and he gives up for the night. 

He tosses his empty beer bottle in Richie’s recycle bin, cringing at the loud sound it makes when it lands. It’s so quiet up here that he can hear the quiet slosh of water hitting the shoreline, the crickets singing to each other from around the lake. 

He realizes, then, why Richie loves it here. There’s nothing to remind him of DC, of hockey, of the Caps. It’s just the water and the trees, the moon reflecting on the lake and the quiet hum of mosquitoes buzzing around the soft light from the oil lamp on the deck. It’s the perfect place to decompress. 

It’s the perfect place to kick back and think about nothing but what’s for dinner or if the fish are biting. 

After he’s turned off the lights and crawled into bed, he rolls onto his side, staring out at water, lit up by the full moon hanging heavy in the sky. He breathes in and out, closes his eyes, and falls into the best sleep he’s had since he left DC.

**

He wakes up to the sound of birds chirping, and when he opens his eyes, there’s sunlight spilling into the room. He has to squint when he looks at the lake; it’s glittering in the sun, rays of light bursting from the surface. He rolls over onto his back and stretches, palming his half-hard dick through the thin cotton of his boxers. It would be nice, he thinks, to kick the covers down and slip his hand inside, jerk off lazily before he starts the day. But it’s not urgent, and the smell of coffee wafting into the room is more tempting than getting off, so he plants his feet on the floor and stands up, rubbing a hand over his face. 

“Hey,” Mike says, wandering into the kitchen after he’s gone to the bathroom and pulled on a pair of sweats. “What smells so good?”

Richie’s standing over the stove, a spatula in one hand. There’s a fresh pot of coffee on the counter, two mugs next to it, and a pitcher of orange juice on the table, which has been set for two.

“Good morning, lazy,” Richie says. He doesn’t turn around, just continues whatever he’s doing at the stove, so Mike pours himself a cup of coffee and pulls out a chair to sit down. “French toast ok?” he asks, and Mike’s mouth practically waters.

“My favorite,” he says honestly, and damn, Richie is just full of surprises. “You do breakfast too, huh?” he asks over his mug, and then Richie’s sliding two perfect pieces of french toast, stuffed with cream cheese, onto his plate. “Oh my god,” he says, licking his lips. “This looks amazing. Thanks.”

“Syrup or cinnamon and sugar?” Richie asks, ignoring the compliment as he fills his own plate with breakfast. 

“Uh,” Mike says, because how is he supposed to choose? Richie laughs and rolls his eyes. 

“Syrup first,” Richie says, “and cinnamon and sugar with your next helping.”

“Who said I was going to -- “ Richie cuts him off with a knowing look, and Mike gives in, reaching for the syrup. The first bite is like heaven, and Mike actually moans in appreciation. “Will you move in with me next season?” he asks, and then freezes with his fork hovering over his plate. 

Richie goes quiet -- quieter, anyway -- and puts his hands on the counter, his back to Mike. “Sure, Latts,” he says softly. “Next season, you and me.” He does nothing to hide the bitter tone in his voice, and Mike feels instantly guilty. 

“I’m sorry,” Mike says quickly. “That was stupid, I know we -- “

Richie turns around, and it’s amazing, Mike thinks, how he can silence Mike with just one look. “It’s fine,” Richie says, pulling out his own chair and dousing his french toast in syrup. “Just -- let’s pretend neither of us are worrying about that, ok? We’re just hanging out, enjoying the summer.”

Mike nods and takes another bite before he can say anything stupid again, and they eat breakfast in silence, other than the sounds of their forks hitting their plates. 

“I’m taking the boat out today,” Richie says, holding out his hand for Mike’s empty plate. “You coming?” Mike stands up, pushing his way in next to Richie at the sink as he starts to run the water. “You don’t have to --” Richie adds.

“I’ll dry,” Mike says, holding out his hand for a towel, and Richie holds his gaze for a long moment before he finally gives it to him. “And yeah, I’m coming.”

They clean up in a comfortable silence, their elbows bumping every now and then, and Mike’s never enjoyed drying dishes this much in his life. It’s telling, maybe, that it’s with Richie--that the comfort level they share is something Mike’s never had with anyone, not even Tom--but it’s not something he’s going to let himself think about. He’s not going to let himself think about anything, actually -- just hanging out, enjoying the summer. Just like Richie said. 

“Shower up,” Richie says when they’re finished, drying his hands on Mike’s towel. “I’m leaving in 10.” And then he’s out the door, a cooler in one hand and a bottle of sunblock in the other. 

Mike can’t remember the last time he showered so fast.

**

Three hours later, Mike feels Richie nudging him with his foot. He grunts in annoyance, waving a hand in Richie’s general direction. “Stop it,” he mumbles, tugging his hat lower over his eyes. “I’m having the best nap ever.” The boat’s rocking gently, the sun is warm on his skin, and he never wants to move. Ever.

Richie chuckles and presses his toes into Mike’s ankle. “You’re turning pink,” he says, poking at Mike’s bare arm. “Did you put sunblock on?”

“You saw me do it,” Mike says, swatting at Richie again. “Now leave me alone and catch us some fish.” He should have known it wouldn’t be that easy, because the next second, he’s sucking in a shocked breath when Richie splashes cold lake water all over his chest. “Fuck!” Mike shouts, scrambling to sit up. “You fucker!” He’s laughing though, and Richie is doubled over with laughter of his own. 

“Never seen you get up that fast, Latts,” Richie says brightly, and Mike humphs, smacking Richie’s hat off his head. It lands in the water, making Richie squawk, reaching for it so quickly that the boat tilts and Mike falls to his ass. 

That sets Richie off into another fit of laughter, even as he puts his wet hat back on his head and it drips water down his face. When they finally catch their breath, Richie lowers himself to the floor of the boat next to Mike, their shoulders pressed together. It’s warm, maybe too warm, but Mike doesn’t want to move. He wants to sit here, with Richie pressed against him, for as long as he can, thinking about nothing.

“Hey,” Richie says softly, and Mike looks at him. “Thanks for coming up, man. I know it’s a pain in the ass to get here, I probably shouldn’t have even --”

“Hey,” Mike says, cutting him off. “Thanks for inviting me. It was worth the trip. I’m, uh. I’m glad I’m here.”

Richie snorts quietly, knocking their knees together. “You’re just saying that because I made you french toast.”

“Well I’m not gonna lie, that’s part of it,” Mike says with a laugh. “But seriously, Richie. I needed this. So, I mean. Thanks. Really.”

“Yeah,” Richie says with a nod. “Yeah, of course. Anytime. Glad to have you.”

The boat rocks gently,the sun is warm on his shoulders, and right now, there’s no place in the world Mike would rather be.

**

“You got a little sun today,” Richie says when they’re tying the boat to the dock. Richie grabs the net full of fish from the boat’s cooler and hands it to Mike before gathering up his tackle box and pole and heading down the dock. Mke follows, the skin on his shoulders already feeling tight.

“You shouldn’t have let me fall asleep,” Mike complains, making Richie laugh and look over his shoulder at Mike as they make their way back up to the house. 

“You’re kidding, right? You almost threw me overboard just for waking you, pretty sure you were napping no matter what I said.”

“True,” Mike admits, hesitating outside the door when they reach the house. 

“What?” Richie asks from where he’s hanging his pole on the rack next to the door. “Is it locked?”

Mike shakes his head and holds the net full of fish out to Richie. “Shouldn’t these stay out here?”

Richie laughs and reaches around Mike to slide the door open. “Nah,” he says. “Bring ‘em in. We’re gonna clean ‘em.”

“We,” Mike says. _”We?”_

“Ah, Latts,” Richie says, clapping him on his sunburned shoulder. It hurts, but the pain is good, setting something simmering low in his gut. “You’ve got so much to learn.”

**

“I’m going to be scrubbing fish scales out of my hair for a week,” Mike complains, wrinkling his nose at the blood on his hands. Richie laughs and sets the last of the filets in a pan, pushing them aside to start cleaning up.

“That’s your own fault,” he says, pointing a finger at Mike. “Why were you touching your hair anyway?”

“I had an itch!” Mike says, defensive, and Richie rolls his eyes, putting his hands on Mike’s shoulders and turning him around, giving him a push towards the sink. 

“Wash up,” Richie says, “and then go shower. I’ll throw these on the grill.”

“Aren’t you gonna shower?” Mike asks, running his hands under the water.

“I’m not the one covered in fish guts,” Richie says, and he’s right, damn him. Mike has no idea how it happened, but somehow he’s a complete mess while Richie simply had to wash his hands and wipe them on a towel and he was clean as a whistle. “I’ll shower later, anyway. Get going.”

“Yes, _dad_ ,” Mike chirps, and that earns him backhand to the ass. It’s playful, but Mike jumps anyway, his heart doing that familiar jump that’s been happening a lot more since he’s been at Richie’s. 

“Not your dad, Latts,” Richie says. “Far from it.” Richie’s out the door to the deck before Mike’s brain can catch up enough to chirp him back, and he blows out a breath, drying his hands on his pants and making his way down the hall. 

He grabs a towel from the closet and closes the bathroom door, stripping out of his clothes and turning on the water until it runs hot. When he gets in, the spray stings his skin, and he hisses under his breath; he’s more sunburned that he thought. He rolls his shoulders and tips his head back, realizing too late that he forgot to grab his shampoo from the bedroom. Richie’s shampoo is right there,though, and Mike’s pretty sure Richie won’t mind if he steals a handful.

He pours it into his hand and runs it through his hair. The scent of the shampoo is so _Richie_ that he goes warm all over, heat pooling in his gut. He stops for a minute, takes a deep breath, and then digs his fingers in, working the shampoo through his hair. When he closes his eyes, he thinks about Richie doing it instead; Richie’s fingers on his skin, his lips on the back of Mike’s neck. Mike shivers and drops one hand to his side, his head tilted back into the spray of the water, rinsing his hair clean. 

He brushes his fingertips over his hip, then lower, into the coarse hair just above his dick, hard and heavy between his legs now. It’s not like he hasn’t noticed Richie before, how attractive he is, what a great smile he has. He’s just never let himself _think_ about it, but now, here at Richie’s place on the lake, with nothing to think about _but_ Richie, he can’t help himself. 

He wraps his hand around his dick, giving it two long, slow strokes. Fuck, it feels good, the hot water on his back, the heat tingling in his balls as his thumb brushes over the head of his cock. The shower wall is cold under his palm when he leans forward to brace himself, biting his lip as he jerks off. He pictures Richie naked in the middle of his bed, spread out and waiting for Mike, waiting to take him apart. He imagines Richie opening his mouth, swallowing his dick, and he comes with a soft cry, his teeth buried in his lower lip. 

His wet hair hangs in his eyes as he catches his breath, still braced against the wall. “Fuck,” he whispers aloud, and he jumps when Richie pounds on the door.

“Did you fall asleep again?” Richie calls.

Mike straightens quickly. “I’ll be out in a minute!” he calls, heart racing. He washes the rest of his body quickly, taking extra care to make sure the mess he made has washed away before he turns off the water. When he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, he’s not sure if his skin is red from the water or the sun, but as he dries off, he realizes which it is. Richie must have some aloe hidden in the cupboards, Mike thinks, but he doesn’t want to snoop, so he wraps his towel around his waist and opens the door, crossing the hall to his bedroom. 

When he finally joins Richie on the deck, Richie whistles long and low. “Shit, man, that’s gotta hurt.”

Mike makes a face, but nods. “Which is why I’m not wearing a shirt,” he admits. “Your sunblock is defective.” Richie shrugs, tossing him a bottle of bug spray. 

“You’re gonna need that,” Richie says, and Mike mumbles his thanks before covering all of his bare skin with spray. “I have aloe in the house,” he adds, handing Mike a beer. “I’ll put it on your shoulders later, if you want.” His grin tells Mike that he’s teasing, but Mike’s face goes red anyway, and the way Richie winks doesn’t make it any better. He flashes back to the shower, to coming all over the wall thinking of his dick in Richie’s mouth, and he feels a wave of guilt for letting himself go there. Richie invited him here as a friend, as someone who’d hang out with him without any pressure or judgement or talk about hockey, and yet here Mike is, thinking about fucking his mouth like it’s business as usual.

“Latts!” Richie asks, insistent like he’s said it a few times, and Mike blinks, clearing his throat. “You okay in there?”

“Huh?” Mike says, then nods quickly. “Yeah, I’m fine, just, uh. Too much sun, I think,” he finishes.

Richie nods knowingly. “Sit down,” he says, waving at the two chairs where they ate dinner the night before. “Fish is almost done, enjoy your beer, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Mike replies, sinking into the chair gingerly, his skin tingling. “Thanks, man.”

“No problem,” Richie says. Then they fall into silence again, one that Mike is sure is probably welcomed by the both of them, tired from spending the day under the sun’s bright rays.

He leans back in the chair and drinks his beer and very much does not stare at the dip of Richie’s tanned back as it disappears into his swim trunks. 

**

“And then,” Richie’s saying, laughing around the mouth of his beer bottle, “he steps _right_ back in the puddle, like he forgot it was there or something.”

Mike snorts, throwing his head back in laughter. “Oh my god, no way.”

“Yep,” Richie replies, popping the p. “Joke was on me, though, because as soon as he got himself out, he shook off his fur and covered me with mud.”

Mike hoots again, nearly snorting beer through his nose. “That’s even better!” he laughs, slapping his own knee. “Man, dogs are the _best_.” He pauses for a minute, then looks around, like he’s been missing something this whole time. “Hey. Where is Arnold anyway?”

“Still with my parents,” Mike says, tipping the bottle back to finish the last swig of beer. “Wanted to get settled up here first, clear my head a bit. I’ll have him back in a week or two.

After dinner, they’d settled back into their chairs and Richie pulled a cooler full of beer up to this side before starting a fire in the fire pit made just for the deck. They talked and laughed and drank as the sun sank into the lake and the world around them went dark. 

They’d talked about growing up, about their families, about their dogs and their favorite movies and their favorite music. They’d talked about the past and about the future, and they didn’t talk about hockey at all.

It hangs between them, though, heavy; an unanswered question for the both of them. Mike knows -- well, Richie probably knows too, he’d been down this road before -- that nothing in this profession is a guarantee, especially not for a 4th line center who only played in half of the games all season, or for a 31-year-old veteran whose problems off the ice made it difficult for him to find a place on it in the first place, this year. 

Still, they don’t talk about it. Here, with the fire and the lake and the fish and the beer, it’s like hockey doesn’t exist. 

Mike likes it. Maybe too much.

He turns his head when he hears the clank of Richie setting his beer down, and he squints in the firelight. Richie is looking at him, the fire flashing in his eyes, and Mike could swear he’s leaning forwards. It feels like they’ve been building towards this all night, their chairs so close together that their arms were touching, and the only thing that’s surprising about it is that Mike isn’t surprised at all. 

“Hey,” Richie says softly, his voice carrying even as a near-whisper, and yeah, he’s definitely moving closer, he’s so close they’re sharing breath --

And then their lips are touching, Richie’s mouth warm against his as he presses in closer, Mike’s lips parting as Richie kisses him. His eyes drift closed before he can stop them, and he makes a quiet sound when Richie pulls back just enough that their lips aren’t touching anymore. Mike can’t bring himself to open his eyes. He doesn’t want to lose the moment, the quiet spell in the air between them. 

He opens his eyes when Richie’s hand cups his jaw, his thumb sliding over Mike’s lower lip, the lightest touch. When their eyes meet, Richie smiles and Mike can breathe again.

Richie kisses him again, just a soft peck, and rests his forehead against Mike’s before chuckling softly, his breath warm on Mike’s face. “Been wanting to do that for awhile now,” he admits.

Mike’s stomach somersaults. “Yeah?” he asks, a little breathless, and Richie nods, his hand heavy on Mike’s arm. 

“Yeah,” Richie says softly. “That ok?”

“More than okay,” Mike replies. This time when Richie laughs, Mike feels it all the way down to his toes. 

**

When Mike wakes up after his second night at Richie’s place, there’s rain pattering against the windows. He hears a low rumble of thunder in the distance and closes his eyes, letting his mind drift back to the night before.

After Richie kissed him -- holy shit, Richie _kissed_ him -- they stayed out by the fire a while longer, half in each other’s laps. When Richie turned his hand palm-up on this thigh, Mike took the hint and laced their fingers together. They stayed like that until the fire started to flicker and fade, leaving them in near-darkness on the deck. 

Once the last embers had faded, Richie squeezed his hand and ran his thumb over Mike’s knuckles, then stood up, pulling Mike up with him. They’d kissed again then, Richie’s hand cupping the back of Mike’s neck, warm on his skin, and then once more outside Mike’s bedroom door, sweet and slow and lazy. 

“See you in the morning,” Richie whispered against his ear. 

By the time Mike got into bed, his heart was racing. He turned his face into the pillow and smiled, allowing the giddiness to overtake him. When he fell asleep, he didn’t have a care in the world.

A loud clap of thunder startles him from his thoughts, and his eyes fly open. It’s raining harder now, in thick columns that make it hard for him to even make out the lake through the window, and he rolls over onto his back, staring at the ceiling fan as it spins its lazy circles above him.

He should get up, he thinks, maybe make Richie breakfast, but his stomach flutters anxiously at the thought. Last night was something Mike never expected, but at the same time, it felt so natural that it’s hard to think about what he’ll do if it was just a fleeting thing, a way to find some comfort in the seemingly inevitable, to say goodbye before everything changes. 

It’s Sunday -- the end of the weekend -- and he wonders, with increasing dread, if Richie expects him to go now that the weekend is over. He will, of course, he’d never overstay his welcome, and he should probably be looking at flights back anyway. He’s got a condo rented out in Toronto for the summer and plans to train with Tom waiting for him back home.

The problem is, the last thing he wants to do is pack his bag and get on a plane.

A flash of lightning brightens up the room, and Mike almost doesn’t hear the soft rap of Richie’s knuckles on the door over the roll of thunder that follows it. He holds his breath, unsure for a moment if that’s really what he heard, before Richie knocks again. 

“Mike?” he says, his voice muffled. “You up?”

Mike runs a hand through his messy hair and rubs his eyes quickly, sitting up a little. “Yeah,” he calls. “Come in.”

The door opens slowly, and Richie pokes his head in, then leans against the door frame. His arms are crossed over his bare chest, and his grey sweats hang low on his hips. He’s long and lean, in end-of-season shape, and Mike’s hit with a sudden, overwhelming sense of longing. It makes him bold, brave, and he smiles at Richie, cocking one eyebrow.

“You waiting for an invitation?” he drawls, and for all the bravado in his voice, his heart is hammering in his chest. What if he’s reading this all wrong? 

But Richie’s face breaks out in a slow, sly grin, and he pushes off the door frame, dropping his hands to his sides and crossing the room in three long strides. “Hey,” he says simply, and the bed dips when he presses a knee into the mattress. He leans in over Mike, who’s still leaning back into the mountain of pillows behind him. Richie plants one hand on either side of Mike’s body, and when Mike tilts his head up, Richie meets him halfway. 

They kiss like they’ve been doing it for years, like they were made just for this. Richie hums softly when Mike runs a hand up his arm, settling it in the dip of his collarbone, his thumb stroking over the smooth skin there. 

“Good morning,” Richie mumbles against Mike’s mouth, and Mike smiles, the curve of his lips disturbing the rhythm of their kiss. 

“I’d say so,” Mike says, pressing his lips to Richie’s jawline and savoring the scrape of Richie’s beard on his skin. When Richie doesn’t complain, Mike keeps kissing, along his jaw, behind his ear, down the slope of his neck. He kisses Richie’s bare shoulder and turns his face into Richie’s neck, taking a moment just to breathe. 

“Why’d you stop?” Richie asks. Mike smiles at the teasing lilt in his voice. He takes the opportunity to scrape his teeth lightly over the tendon in Richie’s neck, kissing the hollow of his throat, his chin, and finally his mouth again. He tangles his fingers in the long hair at the back of Richie’s neck, urging him closer, and the kiss goes from warm to hot the second Mike tightens his grip. Suddenly Richie’s hands are everywhere, cupping his face, dragging down his chest, sliding up his arms and back down again. Mike feels like he’s on fire, burning up from the inside out. 

He’s hard now, his dick aching between his legs, so when Richie’s hand slips beneath the covers, his fingertips dipping just below the waistband of Mike’s boxers, Mike sucks in a breath, the muscles in his stomach going tense. 

Richie breaks the kiss then, tucking his face into the crook of Mike’s neck. “Can I?” he whispers. There’s nothing Mike can do but fist the sheets in one hand and nod furiously. He feels Richie smile against his skin, and then Richie’s hand is on him, cupping him through the cotton that’s pulled tight over his erection. 

“Richie,” Mike manages, flexing the muscles in his thighs to keep himself from arching up off the bed to chase the pressure of Richie’s hand. _”Mike_ ,” he groans when Richie squeezes, pressing his thumb just under the head of Mike’s dick. 

Richie laughs softly and kisses behind Mike’s ear. “Must be good if you’re breaking out the first name,” he says, and Mike shivers, tossing his head to the side and taking a gulp of air. 

“Don’t stop,” Mike pleads. Richie kisses his neck, tucking his fingers into Mike’s boxers and tugging them down to his thighs. Mike’s cock bobs free, and he’s so hard, he’s so turned on already, he doesn’t know how much more he can take before he comes all over the both of them.

“Don’t plan to,” Richie whispers. Before Mike can blink, he’s between his legs, pulling his boxers all the way off and wrapping his lips around the head of MIke’s dick. 

“Fuck!” Mike swears, and he does buck up off the bed then, the muscles in his ass clenching as Richie swallows him down. “Fuck, sorry, just -- oh my _god_ Richie, I --”

He groans long and low when Richie’s nose touches his lower belly, and Richie stays there, just holds Mike’s cock in his throat like he’s not driving Mike completely over the edge. Mike touches the back of Richie’s head, strokes his fingers over his neck, and when Richie pulls up again, his mouth tight around Mike’s shaft, Mike loses it, shuddering through his orgasm while Richie finishes him off. 

“Oh my god,” Mike pants, throwing an arm over his face. Richie presses a kiss to his inner thigh, to his hip, to the soft skin just below his navel, and then he pulls Mike’s arm away gently, grinning down at him with a look in his eye that’s far too fond for the act he just pulled off. “Fuck,” Mike says, again, for lack of anything better.

Richie laughs, settling into the mattress next to him. “Good?” he asks. How can Mike answer that with actual words? There are no words for how good it was. 

“Yeah,” he says simply. “Yeah, Richie, _Mike_ , jesus christ, you’re good at that.”

Richie kisses his shoulder and then manhandles him until he’s laying on his side, playing the part of little spoon to Richie’s big. Mike’s taller, bigger than Richie, but he can’t deny that it feels good to have Richie’s face pressed to the back of his neck. 

Richie’s hard under his sweatpants, his dick snug against Mike’s ass, and Mike pushes back into him, gratified by the way Richie moans when he does it. “I can take care of that for you,” he mumbles, even though right now he feels completely boneless and seconds away from falling back to sleep.

“Later,” Richie promises, kissing the back of his neck. “It’s early. Go back to sleep.”

Mike doesn’t argue.

**

The first thing he notices when he wakes up is that it’s still raining outside. Raindrops chase down the window, one after the other, and there’s a light mist coming off the lake. 

The next thing he notices is that the spot where Richie had been curled behind him has gone cold, and he’s alone in his room. He rolls over onto his back and smoothes his hand over the sheets next to him, wondering, briefly, if the whole thing was just a dream. He’s naked under the covers, though, his boxers on the floor next to the bed, and the bedroom door is open just a crack, like Richie didn’t close it all the way when he snuck out.

For the second time this morning, he finds his stomach wobbling with anxiety. It’s also grumbling, though, protesting the late morning hour and the lack of breakfast, so he pushes down his worry and fishes through his bag for a pair of pants before padding quietly down the hallway to the kitchen.

Richie’s at the stove, still shirtless, still wearing the same sweats he’d been wearing when he came to Mike’s room earlier, and Mike relaxes, letting his gaze sweep over Richie’s shoulders then down his back, his fingers itching to touch Richie’s skin. He presses himself to Richie’s back and winds his arms around Richie’s waist, kissing his shoulder lightly. 

“You trying to plump me up?” Mike asks, his voice still gravelly with sleep.

Richie chuckles as he flips the thick pancakes cooking on the skillet. “Nah,” Richie says, and turns his head just enough that Mike’s nose brushes his cheek. “Trying to make you happy.” Mike’s heart swells, heat rising to his cheeks. 

“Goin’ soft on me, Richie,” Mike mutters, fond, and kisses the side of his neck, mouthing “thanks” against the skin there before moving to pour himself a cup of coffee.

They eat breakfast in relative silence, their legs tangled together at the ankles under the table, and this time, when Richie ends up with a sticky smear of syrup at the corner of his mouth, Mike reaches across the table to wipe it away with his thumb. The smile Richie rewards him with warms him from head to toe.

When the breakfast dishes have been cleared and the kitchen is clean, they sink into the plush couch in the living room, Richie’s arm draped over Mike’s shoulders while they trade lazy kisses, _Mystic River_ playing on Netflix in the background. 

“So,” Richie finally says, an hour into the movie, and Mike forces himself to stay relaxed. He wonders if this is the moment Richie will ask him when his flight back is, or worse, offer to help him pack or something. Mike knows he has things to do back home; he knows he has to train for the season and he can’t just spend the whole summer hanging around in Kenora, avoiding his uncertain future.

But the things is, he thinks, as he looks at Richie, at the rain falling out the window over his shoulder, at the lake in the distance, the thing is -- he _wants_ to. It’s only been two days, and summer never lasts forever, it _can’t_ , but Mike wants to hole up at Richie’s place for the next three months and pretend nothing else exists outside of the two of them and the stunning Kenora scenery.

“The day’s probably a wash,” Richie goes on, as Mike lets out a breath, relieved. “Unless you feel like going fishing in the rain.” He smirks, and Mike knows he knows there’s no way that’s happening. 

“Sure,” Mike says, and Richie arches an eyebrow in surprise. “Or maybe,” Mike adds, dropping a hand to Richie’s thigh and squeezing, “we could just go back to bed.” Richie laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Looking at him, Mike realizes that this is a side of Richie he’s never seen before. He’s used to _Locker Room_ Richie, who’s mostly serious but also quietly funny, all soft smiles and fist bumps, a supportive teammate. _Hockey_ Richie, who always has his guard up, who’s always looking over his shoulder like he’s waiting for the other skate to drop.

This is different, though. This is _Mike Richards_ , relaxed and easy-going, cool and confident. Comfortable in his own skin. Without hockey, Mike doesn’t know his own identity, but Richie -- Richie seems like he knows right where he belongs, and Mike envies that.

“I believe I owe you a blow job,” Mike says, dragging his fingers over the crease of Richie’s groin. Richie shifts, spreading his legs a little, and cups the back of Mike’s neck, putting just the lightest pressure there. It’s a hint, and Mike is damn sure going to take it.

“Not gonna stop you,” Richie says, letting his head fall back when Mike ducks down to flatten his tongue over one of Richie’s nipples. He shivers when Richie’s fingertips trail lightly over the bumps of his spine, but continues kissing his way down Richie’s belly and nuzzling his nose against the soft hair leading into Richie’s sweats. Richie smells faintly of pine, and Mike recognizes it as the scent of the soap in his shower, clean and crisp. 

“You showered,” Mike says against Richie’s skin as he slides his hands up the the outsides of Richie’s thighs, tucking his fingertips into Richie’s waistband.

“Gonna mess me up again?” Richie asks. When Mike looks up and meets his heavy-lidded eyes, Richie threads his fingers through Mike’s hair and licks his lips. “Been thinking about you getting that mouth on me.”

The words, and the way Richie says them, go straight to Mike’s dick, and he palms himself through his own pants. “Yeah?” he asks, not breaking eye contact while he uses the tip of his tongue to draw a lazy circle around Richie’s navel. Richie hums and lets his head fall back again, lifting his hips when Mike tugs on his sweats. 

Mike’s been with guys before. He’s known he was gay since he was young, and he’s sucked more than one dick in his day. He thinks he has a pretty good idea of how to make it good -- he’s never had any complaints. But something about this moment, kneeling between Richie’s spread legs with his hands on Richie’s thighs, Richie’s dick in front of his face, flushed red and wet at the tip, makes him feel like this is the first time. 

It feels different.

Important.

He swallows around his sudden nervousness and closes his eyes, dragging his tongue from the base of Richie’s cock to the head, the fingers of one hand splayed out over Richie’s belly as he takes his dick down inch by inch. Richie doesn’t make a sound, but Mike catches the little hitches of his breath, the way his hand tightens on Mike’s shoulder when Mike cups his balls, the way he arches his back just the slightest bit when Mike hums softly. It’s all those things that let Mike know Richie is enjoying himself, and when he lets two fingers dip lower, over the soft skin behind Richie’s balls, Richie finally moans. It’s music to Mike’s ears.

After that, he wants nothing more than to make Richie come in his mouth, feel him come apart on his tongue, taste him. When he brushes two fingers over Richie’s hole, Richie lifts his hips, his hand falling to his side and hitting the couch with a loud thud. Mike pulls off slowly and wraps his hand around Richie’s dick, jerking him slowly as he raises his eyes to look at him. 

“I wanna finger you,” he says, and his voice is wrecked but he doesn’t even care, he wants this so bad. “Can I?” 

“Jesus, Latts, _yeah_ ,” Richie says breathlessly, grabbing the wrist of Mike’s free hand to bring Mike’s fingers to his mouth. Mike groans when his fingers slip past Richie’s lips, and when they’re wet enough, Richie lets go and spreads his legs a little wider. 

It’s hands down the hottest thing Mike has ever seen.

He works one finger in slowly, mouthing the head of Richie’s dick, tonguing his slit while he moves his finger in and out, slowly at first, testing the give. It’s a little dry, but Richie seems to like the friction. “C’mon, Latts,” Richie urges, and he groans when Mike adds a second finger, pushing both in to the first knuckle. “Yeah, like that,” he gasps, and Mike moves them deeper, deeper, until his fingertips graze Richie’s prostate and Richie’s cock is in his throat.

It doesn’t take long after that. He bobs on Richie’s dick, his fingers moving in and out of Richie’s ass, curling up every few strokes, and Richie doesn’t give him any warning before his dick starts pulsing on Mike’s tongue as he shudders through his orgasm, his hole clenched tight around Mike’s fingers.

Mike swallows around him before pulling off slowly, easing his fingers out once Richie’s stopped shaking. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and when he risks a glance up at Richie, he’s pleased to see the flush on his chest and the sweat beaded at his temples. 

“I don’t think I can move,” Richie says after a minute.Mike laughs softly. His own dick is begging for attention, and when he sits back on his heels, feeling the fabric of his sweats stretch tight over his erection, Richie’s eyes drop between his legs. “Come up here,” he says, and Mike scrambles to his feet, letting Richie grab at his hips and pull him down until Mike’s straddling him. He grinds down against Richie’s belly and gasps. The friction feels good, so good, but he needs more, he needs --

“Jerk off on me,” Richie says, and Mike groans, because yes, please, _that_ is what he needs. He shoves his hand into his sweats, and Richie helpfully pulls his waistband down, tucking it tight under Mike’s balls while Mike fists his dick, one hand braced on the couch behind Richie’s head. “You look so good,” Richie says, leaning in to bite at the join of Mike’s neck and shoulder, and it only takes a few more hard, fast strokes before Mike’s losing it, coming all over Richie’s chest. 

He slumps forward, his face buried in Richie’s neck while Richie’s fingers stroke up and down his back. The touch feels intimate, sweet, and Mike can’t bring himself to move. They stay like that, Richie’s pants around his ankles, Mike in his lap with his dick out of his sweats, until the buzz of Mike’s phone on the end table startles them both from the moment.

“Sorry,” Mike says sheepishly, gently extracting himself from Richie’s lap. Richie swats his ass when he leans over the arm of the couch to grab for it, and Mike yelps, laughing when he sees the amused look on Richie’s face. “You have a thing for my ass, I think,” Mike says, flirty, and Richie winks at him. 

“Willy texting?” Richie asks casually as he pulls his pants up. Mike’s come is drying on his chest. 

“Doubtful,” Mike says, rolling his eyes as he types in his passcode. He’s right, it’s not Tom. It’s his brother, asking what time his return flight gets in. Mike’s stomach drops to the floor. 

“You good?” Richie asks, watching Mike carefully. Mike just nods, his thumbs hovering over the keyboard. He has no idea what to say, what to tell Jimmy. All he knows is that he doesn’t want to leave, but he doesn’t know how to ask if he can stay.

“Just, uh,” he says, lowering his phone to his lap. “My brother. Just asking, y’know...when I’m going home.”

Richie hums, but doesn’t move from his spot or say anything else, which is very unhelpful. 

“So, I should, uh. I should probably book a flight back?” It’s a question, and Mike really hopes it’s as transparent as he feels.

“Do you want to?”

Mike bites his lower lip and looks at his phone. _When does your flight get in > he reads, over and over. _

He meets Richie’s eyes and shakes his head. Richie shrugs in response, the hint of a smile on his lips. “Then don’t.”

“Are you sure?” Mike asks. “I know it was just supposed to be for the weekend, I don’t want to --” 

“Who said it was just for the weekend?” Richie interrupts, and he’s frowning now, like he’s confused. “I never said that.”

“Oh,” Mike says, and now that he thinks about it, Richie never really did say anything about how long he could stay.

It’s awkward for a minute, until Richie leans in and cups Mike’s jaw, swiping his thumb over Mike’s cheekbone. “There’s no end date on the invitation,” he says, and Mike swallows. “And I’d really like if you stayed for as long as you want.”

“Yeah?” Mike asks, another one-word answer, because any other words are failing him right now.

“Wasn’t planning on asking you to go any time soon,” Richie says. 

Mike ducks his head to hide his smile. “I guess I’ll just tell him I’m staying, then,” he says, and Richie doesn’t say anything, just leans in to kiss him. 

“I’m gonna shower,” Richie says, getting to his feet. _”Again_ ,” he adds, with something hot in his tone. “And then we can think about some lunch, yeah?”

Mike just nods and returns Richie’s smile, falling back into the cushions of the couch. Once Richie is out of sight, he puts one hand over his face and smiles so hard his cheeks ache.

**

On the seventh morning at Richie’s place, he wakes up with with Richie’s arm slung over his hips and a text from Tom waiting on his phone. 

_where the hell are you, dude_ , it reads, and Mike finds himself irrationally annoyed by it. The time stamp tells him Tom sent it late last night, and that furthers his irritation. His best friend couldn’t be bothered to keep in touch for the past three weeks, but get him out and drunk and apparently he remembers Mike exists.

“Stop thinking so hard,” Richie mumbles into his neck, digging his fingers into Mike’s hip. 

“Sorry,” Mike says, putting his phone back on the bedside table. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” Richie says. “Who’s on the phone?”

“Tom,” Mike says, knowing how bitter he sounds. “Finally remembered I’m alive, I guess.”

“You miss him?” Richie asks. 

Mike’s first instinct is to say yes immediately. Except when he stops to think about it, when he thinks about the past week, about the time he’s spent with Richie, he realizes that the truth is, he really hasn’t thought about Tom much at all. He laughs softly, his annoyance quickly fading. It’s probably the same with Tom as it is with him, he thinks. They’re best friends, and they always will be, but it’s nice to have an extended break from being in each other’s pockets all the time.

And Tom doesn’t get to see Taylor much during the season, so he’s probably caught up in their reunion. If he’s enjoying himself even half as much as Mike has been, then Mike has no real right to be upset with him. 

“Nah, I guess I don’t,” Mike says. “Someone else has been keeping all my attention lately.”

“Sounds serious,” Richie says, teasing, and Mike bites his tongue before he can say anything too presumptuous.

“He’s pretty hot,” he says instead, and Richie laughs. “But he’s older than me, so he might have trouble keeping up in bed.”

“I’m sorry, is that a _challenge_?” Richie asks, propping himself up on one elbow and looking down at Mike’s face. Mike grins.

“Maybe,” Mike says. “I’m probably right.”

Richie growls and pounces, then spends the rest of the morning proving Mike wrong.

**

“You text Tom back yet?” Richie asks later that afternoon, after they’d finally managed to get themselves out of bed to eat lunch. They’re on the deck, the sun shining around them, and Mike can’t remember the last time he felt this good.

“No,” Mike says honestly, taking a bite of his salad. “I will. Just -- I know he’s gonna ask when I’m coming back, because we’re supposed to train together.” Richie nods, but doesn’t say anything, just sips his water and continues eating. “I signed a lease on a condo, too, close to downtown, so. There’s that.”

“Yeah,” Richie says, meeting his eyes across the table. “That’s good. You’re starting to lose some of that muscle tone.” His mouth twitches, and Mike pulls an ice cube out of his glass to throw at him. “Hey!” Richie protests, laughing, and then sits back in his chair, looking thoughtful. “I have a guy.”

“A guy,” Mike says, raising an eyebrow. “Like --a guy for what?”

“A trainer,” Richie says. “I haven’t been over there since you got here, but I mean. If you wanted… if you’re gonna stay. I can give you his name. He’ll set you up with a program.”

This is one of those moments, Mike thinks. One of those defining moments -- should he stay or should he go? 

He doesn’t even hesitate.

“Cool,” Mike says. “I’ll call him tomorrow.”

The way Richie smiles at him tells him he made the right decision.

**

The guy’s name is Dave, and he’s in killer shape. “Good to meet you,” he says when Mike arrives. He grabs Mike’s hand in a tight grip and pumps it twice, then claps his hands together and gives Mike a once-over. “Richie tells me you’re thinking about training here this summer.”

Mike nods, glancing around the gym and the variety of equipment they have to offer. He’s not sure why he’s surprised; Richie’s in great shape, there’s no way he’d slack on a training program. “Yeah, uh. I have something set up in Toronto, but I can’t just do nothing while I’m here. I have -- “ _to earn a spot on a roster_ , he thinks, then shakes it away. “--I have to get back into it.”

“I hear ya, man,” Dave says, with a nod. “Well, I can put you on the regimen Richie usually uses, if you’re cool with that. You guys are built a little different, but I think it’ll work out well for you.”

“Sounds good,” Mike agrees, and follows Dave into his office to fill out the paperwork. “What days does Richie come in?” he asks, sitting down across from Dave at his desk. “I can just come in with him, since I’m at his place anyway.”

Dave bends over to pull a folder out of his desk drawer, opening it up and pulling out a few forms. “Mike’s not set up yet this summer,” he says lightly, flipping one of the forms so Mike can read it. Dave hands him a pen, pointing out where he needs to sign.

 _Not set up_? Mike thinks. He swears Richie said he’d been going to the gym before Mike arrived in Kenora. 

He signs his name in three places and initials two, agreeing to four days a week on and three off. Then Dave’s shaking his hand again, telling him he’ll see him tomorrow morning.

“Richie?” Mike calls when he gets in the house, tossing the keys onto the kitchen table in the habit he’s unconsciously picked up from Richie. He wipes the sweat from his eyes where it’s dripping down his forehead -- he’d run the three miles to and from the gym after he realized he hadn’t worked out since he’d been here (unless, of course, you count the workout he’s been getting in bed) -- and calls Richie’s name again. It’s not until he looks out the window that he realizes Richie’s truck isn’t outside.

“Huh,” he says aloud, scanning the kitchen and living room for a note. He checks his phone, too, thinking maybe Richie texted him, but there’s nothing there, either. It’s the first time they’ve been apart -- _really_ apart -- since Mike got here, aside from Richie making a beer run at the gas station up the street, and it’s strange, how easily he’s gotten used to Richie’s constant presence. The house feels empty with Richie unexpectedly gone.

He grabs a bottle of water from the fridge and downs it quickly, then takes a quick shower, pulling on a pair of shorts after he has dried off and tucking himself into the corner of the couch to flip through channels. He checks his phone one more time -- still no text from Richie -- and then remembers that he never answered Tom yesterday.

His thumbs hover over the keyboard for a minute, and he tries to come up with a good reason why he’s not going back to Toronto to train (not yet, anyway). He has no idea if Richie told anyone he was here or how Richie would feel about him telling anyone. They haven’t talked about this thing between them, whatever it is, and he doesn’t want to do anything that’ll make Richie uncomfortable or cross some unspoken line, without checking with him first. 

He sighs and sets his phone down on the side table before settling in again, turning down the volume and closing his eyes. 

He could use a nap, anyway.

**

He’s dreaming of Richie kissing him, deep and slow and -- wait, why is his face wet?

Mike blinks awake. A blur of black fur is the first thing he sees when he opens his eyes. He wrinkles his nose against the long, wet lick of a dog’s tongue, and -- oh. _Oh_ , this must be Arnold, then. 

Richie is standing over him, smiling fondly, and Mike puts a hand up in front of his face so Arnold licks his palm instead. “Hey, buddy,” he mumbles. “Hey, you.” He cups Arnold’s big face in his hands and kisses his snout, scratching behind his ears. 

“I think he likes you,” Richie says, and Mike smiles, sitting up and making space for Arnold in the vee of his legs. 

“He has good taste,” Mike says, kissing Arnold’s head next. Richie sinks into the couch next to him, knocking their knees together.

“Yeah,” Richie says quietly. “He really does.”

Mike feels himself flush, even as a slow smile spreads across his face. He turns to look at Richie, who leans in to kiss him before Mike can really even say hello. Arnold whines softly and noses at Mike’s hand, and Mike laughs into the kiss. “I think your dog is jealous,” he says, and turns his attention back to Arnold, who wags his tail happily. “You didn’t say you were going to get him today.”

“I know,” Richie says, leaning back to get comfortable. “Sorry, I just figured, y’know, you were setting stuff up with Dave, seemed like a good time to go pick him up.”

“It’s cool,” Mike says, and turns towards him, one hand on Richie’s thigh. “Dave’s got a good setup.”

“Right?” Richie says, covering Mike’s hand with his own, lacing their fingers together. “He’ll kick your ass.”

“Yours too?” Mike asks, trying to keep his tone even. He knows he doesn’t have any right to question Richie’s decisions or to push him to do anything, but he can’t help himself from at least fishing for an explanation for why Richie’s apparently scaling back so much.

“Sure,” Richie says lightly, letting go of Mike’s hand to stand up. “You hungry? I can throw something on the grill.”

“ _Richie_ ,” Mike says to his retreating back, and Richie stops, his shoulders going tense. Mike doesn’t say anything else, just waits.

“I’m just taking a break,” Richie says. “It’s not -- it’s just a break.”

“Okay,” Mike says, and gets to his feet, fitting himself into Richie’s space, his hands resting loosely on Richie’s hips. Richie drops his chin to his chest and lets out a breath, and Mike kisses the back of his neck. “I’m not gonna tell you what to do,” Mike says softly, nosing behind Richie’s ear. “And I promise this is the last time I’ll bring it up, because I know you don't want to talk about it. But I know you’ve got more hockey in you, and I think you know I’m right. So come work out with me, or don’t, but just know that I’ve got your back, yeah? No matter what.”

Richie nods, turning his head to kiss Mike, and the moment is broken when Arnold trots over and tangles himself up in their legs. Mike leans down and pats him on the head, looking up at Richie. “I’m starving. What’s for dinner?”

Richie rolls his eyes and smiles, and the air around them settles. 

**

Richie shows up at Mike’s second gym session, smiling at Mike’s reflection in the mirror.

They don’t talk about it, but Mike shows Richie how exactly happy he is by blowing him in the shower that night.

**

“You talk to Willy yet?” Richie asks one morning, three weeks into Mike’s stay. He’s just gotten out of the shower, looking effortlessly appealing, a towel slung low on his hips, his hair damp around his face. Mike’s still in bed, one arm tucked behind his head while he scrolls through his phone, Arnold at his feet. It’s an off day in their program, and he plans to enjoy every minute of it. 

“What do you mean?” he asks, and the bed dips when Richie sits down near Mike’s hip. 

“I mean, does he know you sublet your condo?”

Mike shrugs and tosses his phone down, his fingers circling Richie’s wrist. “I told him I wasn’t training in Toronto, so. I’m guessing he knows.” Tom had questioned him, of course, has pushed to know what Mike was doing instead, but Mike was vague about it, only telling him he’d made other plans. 

Richie’s watching him closely, studying his face, and Mike’s stomach flutters a little, suddenly heavy with nerves. “Does he know where you are?”

Mike swallows and shakes his head. “I didn’t, uh. I wasn’t sure if you wanted him to know. Or like. Anyone, I guess.”

Richie squints his eyes slightly, his eyebrows drawing together in a frown. “You think I’m keeping you a secret?”

“No!” Mike says quickly, because that’s honestly not what he meant. “No, I just mean --” He sighs softly, because it’s impossible to explain without Richie misunderstanding. “I don’t know what I’m trying to say,” Mike admits, laughing quietly, and Richie’s face softens. He leans in, one hand resting on the side of Mike’s neck.

“I get it,” Richie says, his thumb brushing over Mike’s jaw. “But I’m cool with you telling him.”

Well, Mike thinks. They’ve gotten this far, might as well go all in. “Telling him what?” he asks, then swallows hard again. 

Richie smiles and squeezes Mike’s shoulder. “Whatever you want. I’m not trying to hide anything.”

“Oh,” Mike says, and it’s just one syllable, just a sound, really, but his voice cracks anyway. His heart is suddenly racing, and right now, at this moment, he wants nothing more than to yank the towel from Richie’s waist and pull him down to the bed. “Ok.”

It must show on his face, or in his eyes, because Richie’s suddenly standing up, shooing Arnold from the room and closing the door behind him. Richie’s looking at him like he wants to eat him alive, and Mike’s dick is suddenly very interested in seeing where this is going to lead. 

Then Richie drops the towel, and Mike’s throat goes dry. Richie stops at the end of the bed, his eyes raking over Mike’s chest, and then he yanks the covers down until they pool to the floor in a heap. He wraps his fingers around Mike’s ankle, swipes his thumb over the bone, and raises his eyes to meet Mike’s. “You’re overdressed,” he says, and Mike scrambles out of his boxers so fast that Richie chuckles. 

He leans back on the mound of pillows behind him and spreads his legs invitingly, his cock jutting up towards his belly. Richie’s eyes travel over his body, and when he hums in approval, Mike feels hot all over. “You’re fuckin’ gorgeous, you know that?” Richie says, his voice thick. 

“So are you,” Mike says, itching to reach out and grab Richie, pull him in and never let go. 

“I wanna fuck you,” Richie says, and it’s so unexpected that Mike sucks in a breath, surprised. Richie walks up the bed on his knees and settles between Mike’s legs, leaning in with one hand on either side of Mike’s shoulders until his face is so close to Mike’s, Mike can feel his breath. “I really, really wanna fuck you, Mike.”

“Yeah,” Mike says, and chokes out a strangled sound when Richie lowers his hips so their cocks align, then rocks forward. “Fuck, _yes_ , fuck me, Richie, I want --”

He can’t finish the sentence, because Richie’s mouth is on his, catching his lips in a deep, bruising kiss that sends waves of pleasure coursing through Mike’s body. He grips Richie’s arms tightly, digging his fingertips into the strong muscles in Richie’s biceps like he’s holding on for dear life 

“Wanted you for so long,” Richie mumbles as he kisses his way along Mike’s jaw, biting at his earlobe before ducking his head to suck at his neck. “Fuck, Mike, you’re so hot.”

“Just want me for my body, huh?” Mike jokes, breathless, and Richie smiles into his shoulder before propping himself up on his hands to look down at Mike. Their eyes meet, and Richie licks his lips. “What?” Mike asks, husky.

“It’s so much more than that,” Richie whispers, and Mike’s heart leaps to his throat. 

“We gonna talk about our feelings, or are you gonna fuck me into the mattress?” Mike chirps before his face does something really embarrassing, and Richie laughs again, dropping his forehead to Mike’s and groaning when Mike’s hands land on his hips, pulling their bodies flush together. 

Anything Richie was going to say falls to the wayside after that, though he drops hints while he’s slicking up two fingers and pressing them against Mike’s hole. Mike tosses his head to the side, spreading his legs even further, arching his back and gasping when Richie’s fingers circle his rim. “You’re amazing,” Richie whispers against his ear. “You’re so fucking good,” he says, “always there for me” and “couldn’t have done any of this without you” and “never want you to leave”. 

When he finally pushes inside, Mike’s so close to the edge that he cries out, clawing at Richie’s back, one heel digging into the back of Richie’s thigh, urging him closer, harder, deeper. When he comes with Richie’s hand on his dick and Richie buried inside him, Richie’s name is on his lips and bursts of white explode behind his eyelids.

It’s only later, after they’ve cleaned up and are tangled up in one another in the middle of the bed, Richie’s fingers playing idly through his hair, that Mike realizes he’s falling in love.

**

 _i’m in kenora_ , he texts Tom three days later, when Richie’s out on the lake with Arnold. He’s lounging on the dock, his feet dangling in the cool water and the sun hot on his shoulders, enjoying the relative quiet of late morning. A jet ski buzzes by, and if he squints, Mike can just make out Richie’s boat in the distance.

Tom’s reply is immediate: _dude. you’re hanging with richie and didn’t invite me?_

 _i’ve been here a month_ , Mike replies, and he can’t explain why sharing that information is making his hands shake a little, but he guesses it has something to do with the fact that he’s about to tell his best friend that he’s probably in love with their teammate, and he’s not really sure how it’s going to play out.

Tom knows he’s into guys, of course he does, Mike’s never kept it a secret from the team. But dating a teammate is a far cry from hooking up on the road, and Mike’s not sure he’s ready for Tom’s reaction. When his phone starts blaring Bieber, he startles, nearly swiping it right off the dock and into the water.

“Hey, man,” Mike says warmly, unable to keep the smile from his voice. He’s not surprised Tom decided to call, and he’s glad, actually. This isn’t really the kind of conversation he wants to have over text. He hasn’t talked to Tom -- _really_ talked to him -- since his birthday, and even then it was only a quick conversation. It’ll be good to hear his voice. 

“Don’t _hey man_ me,” Tom says, and Mike recognizes the tone in his voice. He sounds amused, and he’s definitely making fun of Mike, but there’s a hint of something else, too. Tom’s annoyed, and Mike feels suddenly guilty for not being honest with him sooner. “A _month_? You’ve been up there a _month_ and you didn’t tell me?”

“Hey, Tom, nice to hear from you, how’ve you been?” Mike asks, laughing into the phone. 

“Fuck off,” Tom says cheerfully. “A month, Latts, that’s a long-ass time! What the hell have you been doing up there?”

“Uh,” Mike starts, scrambling for something to say. _Spending a lot of time in bed_ is probably not the best response, nor is _sucking a lot of dick. Richie’s dick, specifically_. “You know. Hanging out at the lake. Fishing.”

“Hanging out,” Tom says slowly. “Okay, dude, spill. What’s going on? Are you even working out? Because not to be a dick, but if you want --”

“Of course I’ve been working out, asshole,” Mike snaps. “I’m not an idiot. I’m on a program at Richie’s gym.”

“You’re _training_ with Richie too?” Tom asks, and there it is -- the questioning tone Mike was waiting for.

“Yeah,” he says, swallowing. “I’m, uh. Richie and I, we’re. Uh.”

“Are you…” Tom says slowly, “holy _shit_ , Latts, are you banging Richie?” 

“I’m in love with him,” Mike blurts, his eyes going wide as he realizes what he just said. Tom’s silent on the other end of the line, and Mike’s heart is hammering in his chest. “Shit, I mean -- oh man, Tommy, I’m in so deep.” He sighs heavily and drags his hand over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It started out just like -- hooking up, I guess? But now…” 

But now, he thinks, now what do I do?

“Wow,” Tom marvels. “Wow, Mike, that’s -- this is not what I was expecting when I called you! Have you told him?”

“No!” Mike says, incredulous. “I can’t tell him, are you crazy? It’s been a _month_ , he’ll laugh me right out of here.”

Tom laughs softly. “Don’t be dumb,” he says. “He’s been gone on you for awhile. You just haven’t been looking.”

Mike blinks, then blinks again. No, he thinks, there’s no way he could have missed that. 

Is there?

“You’re not that blind, are you?” Tom asks with a laugh. “You’re, like, the only one Richie ever spent any significant time with. You were always the first one he asked to get lunch or whatever.” It’s true, is the thing. They _had_ become really good friends, more so than Richie had with anyone else. “And he stared at your ass a lot.” 

Mike snorts in surprise, laughing into the phone. “Now you’re reaching,” he says.

“I’m really not, man,” Tom replies. His tone turns gentle when he continues. “Talk to him. Who knows what’s gonna happen next season, man, and I know how you are about regrets. Tell him.”

“Fine, I’ll think about it,” Mike says. Then, to change the subject, “How’s Toronto? You miss seeing my pretty face every day?”

“I have a much prettier face to look at,” Tom tells him loftily, and Mike can hear the usual fondness in his voice when he’s talking about Taylor before Tom launches into some story about Dylan getting drunk and trying to grill and then starts in on all the concerts that have come through town after that.

They eventually say their goodbyes, Tom getting in one final “tell him, Latts” before they hang up. Afterwards, Mike leans back on his hands, squinting into the sun and kicking his feet gently, the water swirling around his legs. Richie’s boat is still in the same place it was half an hour ago. He finds himself wishing he was out there too, lazing in the sun while Richie fished next to him, Arnold pacing the boat between them. At the same time, he’s strangely content, glad to have caught up with Tom, at least briefly. That’d probably the longest he’d gone without talking to that ugly mug in years, and the sense of needing a break from him was quickly disappearing.

Tom’s right, he thinks, feeling a little giddy and a lot nervous at the thought of telling Richie how he feels. He gets to his feet and pads down the dock, making his way back up to the house. He’s not sure how much time he has before Richie gets back, but he puts it to good use, cleaning the kitchen and the living room, then changing the sheets on the beds. His duffle bag is still in the guest room, clothes strewn around it on the floor, and in a moment of confidence, he gathers them up and moves his things into Richie’s room, folding his clean clothes neatly on the top of Richie’s dresser and tucking his bag into the closet. It’s a bold move, he knows it is, but at this point, he figures it’s go big or go home (though he hopes he won’t literally be going home after this.)

He hears the scrape of the screen door opening, followed by the jangle of Arnold’s collar as he bounds down the hallway, using his snout to push the bedroom door open. Mike smiles and crouches down to greet him, not even complaining when Arnold’s muddy paws land on his thighs.

“Hey, buddy,” he says, letting Arnold lick his face. “Did you have fun, huh? Did you catch lots of fish?”

“One of us did,” Richie says from the doorway, his tanned arms folded over his chest. His sunglasses are pushed back on his head, holding his hair out of his face. Mike really wants to kiss him. “And it’s not the one wagging his tail right now.”

“Hey,” Mike says, getting to his feet, his palms suddenly clammy. “You’re back.”

“I am,” Richie says, his eyes going from Mike to the clothes piled on the dresser behind him. “You moving in?”

“I just thought --” Mike says quickly, the back of his neck going hot.

“Hey,” Richie interrupts, closing the space between them, cupping his hands around Mike’s hips “Relax, ok? I didn’t mean you shouldn’t. I’m glad you did, actually.”

“Yeah?” Mike asks, letting his hand rest on Richie’s collar bone. Richie’s sun-warm, solid under Mike’s touch. 

“Yeah,” Richie answers, his fingertips slipping under the hem of Mike’s shirt. “About time.”

“We should go out,” Mike says suddenly, surprising them both, if the look on Richie’s face is any indication. 

“You gettin’ bored, Latts?” Richie asks, the corner of his mouth twitching. Mike rolls his eyes and shoves lightly at Richie’s shoulder.

“Shut up, no,” he says. “I just -- we should go somewhere nice. I’ll buy you dinner.”

“You askin’ me on a date?” Richie teases, rubbing his thumbs over the cuts of Mike’s hips.

“You sayin’ yes?” Mike answers, and when Richie laughs, it’s light and airy. _Happy_.

“You don’t have to wine and dine me, y’know. You’ve already got me.”

Mike’s heart stutters in his chest, his stomach swooping. “I want to,” Mike says honestly, and Richie leans in to kiss him in response. Mike tangles his fingers in the damp hair at the back of Richie’s neck, lets Richie push him up against the dresser and kiss him harder. They break apart, laughing, when Arnold whines at their feet, pushing between their legs. 

“Aww, buddy, don’t be jealous,” Mike coos, patting Arnold’s head. Arnold licks his hand, and Richie stifles a yawn. 

“Sorry,” Richie mumbles. “We’ve been out in the sun a while. It’s catching up to me.”

Mike laughs. “Then c’mon,” he says, manhandling Richie over to the bed until he gets the hint and crawls up to the pillows. “Nap first, then dinner out.”

Mike follows Richie, settling in at his side, his calf thrown between both of Richie’s as he brushes his lips over the pulse point in Richie’s neck. Richie smells like fresh air and sunlight, and Mike closes his eyes, savoring it. He listens to the steady sound of Richie breathing, and before long, they’re both asleep, Arnold dozing at their feet.

**

“I’m so full,” Mike groans, collapsing onto the couch dramatically. “I can’t move. Leave me here to perish.”

Richie laughs and pushes at Mike’s feet to make space for himself, letting Mike settle his legs in his lap once he’s comfortable. He rubs lazy circles into Mike’s calf with his thumb, and Mike hums happily.

“You didn’t have to have the cheesecake,” Richie points out teasingly, and Mike snorts.

“Worth it,” he says. “But don’t tell Dave. Pretty sure it’s not on my meal plan.”

“No promises,” Richie says, tickling the arch of Mike’s foot. Mike kicks at him, laughing as he tries to swat Richie’s hands away. “C’mere,” Richie tells him, and Mike sits up, his legs still draped over Richie’s lap while they kiss. It’s sweet and easy, like they’ve got all the time in the world to stay here, making out with their fingers tangled together on Mike’s thigh. “Thanks for tonight,” Richie says, breaking the kiss to mouth along Mike’s jawline, his teeth grazing Mike’s earlobe. Mike shivers and closes his eyes, tilting his head to the side to give Richie better access to his neck.

“You’re welcome,” he says, and then, before he can lose his nerve, “Richie. Mike, I -- “

The loud buzz of his phone vibrating on the side table cuts him off, and he sighs, falling back onto the couch with an arm thrown over his face. 

“Mike,” Richie says.

“If it’s Tom, I’m gonna murder him,” Mike grumbles under his breath. He frowns when Richie pushes his legs to the floor and reaches over him, fumbling for the phone and pressing it into Mike’s hand. “What are you --” His heart stops, words stuck in his throat, when he sees his agent’s name lighting up the screen.

 _”Answer it,”_ Richie urges, and Mike swipes his index finger over the screen, holding the phone to his ear. 

“Hey, what’s up?” he says, trying to keep the nerves out of his voice. Richie’s a solid weight next to him, their thighs pressed together, and it’s a steadying force against the way Mike’s heart is racing. 

“Don’t sound so worried, Michael,” his agent says, and Mike can feel Richie’s eyes on him while he listens. “Are you able to get to DC at the end of the week? Management’s been in contact, they’d like to meet with you.”

“Oh,” Mike says, swallowing. “Yeah, I can do that.” _Did they say anything?_ he wants to ask. _Is it good news or bad news?_

“Great,” his agent says. “Noon on Friday then. Looking forward to catching up.”

“Yeah, right, me too,” Mike says. “See you then.” When he hangs up, his hands are shaking a little. 

“Well?” Richie asks, knocking their knees together once Mike has hung up. He’s watching Mike expectantly, and Mike breathes out, fighting warring happiness, and something else; something that’s terrifyingly reluctant to go.

“Mac wants to meet,” he says, and Richie smiles, his hand moving to the back of Mike’s neck, shaking him lightly.

“That’s a good thing, babe,” he says. “Relax.”

“Yeah,” Mike says, feeling a little shell-shocked. “Yeah, we’ll see.”

They sit there like that, Richie’s hand on the back of his neck, for several long minutes, the air heavy between them. 

Richie’s phone stays silent.

“So when do you go?” Richie finally asks, breaking the silence. His voice has lost some of the joy it held earlier, even from a few minutes ago, after Mike got off the phone.

“They want me there Friday,” he says. “I gotta -- “ It’s Wednesday, and traveling out of Kenora is a hassle, and Mike’s suddenly overwhelmed with all he has to do. Book a flight, and find his apartment keys for Arlington, pack what little he has here and drag it with him back to DC. He can’t exactly show up to an interview with Mac in flip flops and a “Sun’s Out, Guns Out “ tank, so he’ll have to --

“Hey,” Richie says, dropping a hand to Mike’s thigh. “We’ll get you there, ok? I’ll grab my laptop, we can find the easiest flight. Ok?”

Mike just nods, and Richie pats his knee and presses a kiss to his temple while Mike sits back on the couch and tries not to freak out about leaving Kenora and what it might mean for him and Richie.

An hour later, he’s booked on a flight out early the next day. “I’ll drop you off,” Richie says, draping his arm around Mike’s shoulders. His fingertips stroke up and down Mike’s arm, and Mike wants to sign with the Caps, wants it more than anything. 

But he wants to stay here, too, with Richie, and pretend that nothing has to change.

“I better pack,” Mike says, clearing his throat around the lump forming there. He moves to stand up, but Richie grabs him by the wrist and pulls him back down.

“You can leave some stuff here too if you want,” Richie says, casual, like it’s a perfectly normal thing to say. 

And maybe it is, Mike thinks. Maybe Tom was right and Richie loves him too. Maybe he can sign with the Caps and still be with Richie, maybe having one doesn’t have to mean losing the other. 

He leans into Richie’s side, turns his face into his neck and sighs softly. “Yeah,” he says quietly, taking a moment to feel Richie against him before he has to get up and start getting ready for what’s going to be a very long day tomorrow. “Yeah, ok.” 

**

He comes out of the meeting with Mac feeling a lot lighter than he had when he went in. He’d spent the entire trip to DC convincing himself that management was just being polite by having him come in; that they were ready to let him down easy and wish him luck in the future. He’d written his goodbyes in his head: what he’d say on the group text to the guys who’d been his family for the past few years, what he’d say to the fans who’d had his back even when he was riding the bench. 

“You’re jumping the gun a little,” Richie had said, his voice warm in Mike’s ear through the phone the night before. “Can’t imagine they’d bring you all the way down there just to let you go.”

“Maybe,” Mike said, staring at the ceiling in his bedroom, which felt astoundingly unlike his home at the moment. The sheets were crisp and clean, tucked under the mattress too tightly. He was ten floors up, and when he looked out the window, there were only buildings and pavement as far as the eye could see. He watched the streaks of light from the headlights on the highway, his eyes searching the sky for any hint of the stars that he’d been able to see so clearly in Kenora. All he saw was darkness. 

He loved DC. He loved the people, and the city, and his team, but then, in that moment, holed up in his empty apartment with Richie on the phone 2000 miles away, DC felt less like a home game and more like a long road stretch he was desperate to be done with.

“Call me after, yeah?” Richie said softly. “Get some sleep.”

“I love you,” Mike wanted to say. Instead, he settled on, “Thanks Richie. Talk to you then.”

There was a text waiting for him that morning when we woke up, just a simple _good luck_ , and it calmed Mike’s nerves enough that walking into the meeting and shaking Mac’s hand wasn’t as terrifying as he imagined it would be.

“We think there’s a home for you on this team, Michael,” Mac said, and the rest was kind of a blur after that. He let his agent guide him through the legal stuff, but all he really heard clearly was “welcome back”, and then he was signing his name to accept the qualifying offer and with it, a new one-year contract.

He walks out of the building with a smile on his face, unbuttoning the top few buttons on the dress shirt he borrowed from Richie for the morning. It’s a little tight in the shoulders, but it smells like Kenora, and it’d been comforting, the whole cab ride to Mac’s office. 

“Congrats, Michael,” his agent says from behind him, catching up to clap Mike on the back. “One more year, plenty of time to earn yourself a solid spot on this team.”

“Thanks,” Mike says, shaking his hand. “Good to be back.” And it is, he thinks. It will be. This is what he wanted, after all. It’s not like teams were beating down the door to snatch him up from Washington, and even without the guarantee of more playing time, having a contract with an NHL team and the opportunity to make a spot for himself on the roster is leagues better than declining to sign and waiting around for a future that might never come.

 _the shirt must be good luck_ he texts Richie when he’s back at the apartment. He pushes open the curtains to let the sunlight pour in and has just sat down on the edge of the bed to browse Seamless on his laptop when his phone lights up with a FaceTime request. 

He accepts, and as soon as the call connects, Arnold’s face appears. Mike grins and scoots back on the bed until his back hits the headboard. “So you’ve learned to used the phone since I’ve been gone, huh? Smart pup.” Arnold presses his nose to the screen, and Richie makes a noise of complaint in the background, pulling the phone away and turning it towards his own face. 

“You signed?” Richie asks. He’s got a Caps hat turned backwards on his head, his summer-tanned shoulders just visible on the bottom edge of the screen, and he’s smiling at Mike like he just won the lottery or something.

“Another year, at least,” Mike says, and there’s no point in trying to hide his own grin. “Kinda can’t believe it, but yeah. It’s done.”

“Congrats, man,” Richie says. “Shirt looks good.” He waggles his eyebrows, and Mike laughs, ignoring the abrupt subject change that Richie just pulled off. 

“It’s a little tight in the shoulders,” he says, tilting his phone to give Richie a better view. “But it worked.”

“Maybe you should take it off,” Richie suggests, and Mike arches an eyebrow at him, surprised. Richie doesn’t strike him as the type who’s into phone sex, but Mike’s not about to turn it down, either. 

He unbuttons it with one hand, letting it fall open over his chest, and Richie licks his lips. It’s hard to get the shirt down over his arms without twisting his body awkwardly, so he tosses the phone down at his side while he maneuvers his way out of the sleeves. 

“Better?” he asks, when he’s settling shirtless into the pillows. 

“Yeah,” Richie says, his eyes roaming over Mike’s bare chest appreciatively. “How’s it feel to be back in your own bed?”

“Eh,” Mike says, wobbling his hand. The truth is, the bed feels too big, and Mike tossed and turned so much last night he barely slept a wink. “I’ve had better.” 

“Well, there’s still a spot here with your name on it,” Richie says softly. “You comin’ back any time soon?”

 _I’m getting on a plane right now_ , Mike wants to say. There’s a lot of things he wants to say, actually, but not like this, with 2000 miles between them over Richie’s crappy rural internet connection. “Miss me already?” he says instead.

“Yeah,” Richie says, then chuckles softly. “Fuck, Mike, I really do. You’ve only been gone two days, but I’m going a little crazy without you here.”

It’s as close to an admission of feelings as Richie’s ever gotten, and Mike’s heart thumps heavily in his chest. 

“I miss you too,” he admits, and fuck, what he wouldn’t give to be able to kiss Richie right now. 

“Come back, ok? Just -- whenever you can. Come back.”

“Okay,” Mike agrees. “I’m gonna hang up so I can book a flight.”

“Text me the details?” Richie asks, as if Mike’s going to say no.

“I will,” Mike assures him, fighting the urge to reach out and touch the screen. “Later, Richie.”

“Mike,” Richie says quickly, before Mike can end the call, and Mike looks at him expectantly. “I -- “ Richie swallows hard, then looks to the side quickly before looking back at Mike. “I’m really happy for you.”

Mike lets out the breath he’d been holding and smiles. “Thanks. See you soon, yeah?” Richie nods, and the phone goes dark. 

Mike groans and falls back into the pillows, his heart still racing, and when his phone buzzes next to him, he grabs for it quickly.

 _better text the guys_ , Richie’d sent. _word will get out quick, don’t want them to feel left out, osh will probably cry_

Mike laughs into the quiet of the apartment and pulls up his last conversation with Tom. 

_you’re stuck with me for another year, roomie_

The response is immediate, and Mike grins. _FUCK YES. but learn to cook if you think we’re living together again, lazy_

He laughs and sends back a random string of emojis, ending with the kissy-face, then pulls up the group text to send a quick message there, too.

_guess who’s back, boys?!_

Richie’s the first one to respond, with a fist-bump emoji.

The other messages coming in will have to wait, though. He’s busy booking his flight to Kenora.

**  
It’s not until late Wednesday that his flight finally arrives in Kenora, and by the time he drags himself off the plane, he’s exhausted. He’d spent most of the weekend in DC catching up with some friends, then flew home to see his family for a couple days. They’d only asked a few questions, but his mom gave him a knowing look when he told her he was flying back to Kenora, and when she hugged him goodbye and told him to be happy, he got a little choked up. 

He checked a bag this time, packing a few more things from home so he could stop stealing Richie’s shirts.

Richie’s waiting for him at the baggage claim, hands shoved in the pockets of his track pants and a hat pulled low on his head, the brim covering his eyes. He looks up when Mike approaches, and when he smiles, Mike’s stomach swoops, a familiar happiness blooming in his chest. 

“Hey,” Mike says softly, stopping just short of too close but still near enough to feel Richie’s body heat. Richie is clean shaven, and Mike has to ball the hand that isn’t gripping the strap of his backpack into a fist so he doesn’t reach out and drag his knuckles along Richie’s jaw. 

“Hey yourself,” Richie says. “How was the trip?”

“Long,” Mike admits, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth as he stifles a yawn. 

“C’mon,” Richie says, just as the luggage carousel buzzes to notify passengers that their bags have arrived. “Let’s get your stuff and get you home.”

 _Home_ , Mike thinks, and yeah. He really likes the sound of that. 

**

Mike’s scraping the remnants of breakfast off their plates when Arnold stops at his feet, his ears perked up and his tongue hanging out of his mouth. He’s wearing that doggie grin that Mike has come to love, and it’s no match for his willpower -- he tosses Arnold a scrap of leftover bacon. Before Richie can stop him, Arnold gobbles it down and licks his chops, and Mike smiles down at him, patting his head. 

“You spoil him,” Richie complains from behind Mike, trailing his fingertips over Mike’s lower back and dropping a kiss to his bare shoulder. 

“That’s why he likes me best,” Mike says proudly, and Richie laughs warmly in Mike’s ear. “Right, baby?” he asks Arnold. “I’m your favorite, right?”

Arnold barks, and Mike raises his arms victoriously. He yelps when Richie pokes at his sides, tickling his ribs. 

“Brat,” Richie says, but he turns MIke around anyway, stealing a few kisses before reaching around to help with the dishes. 

It’s become a routine by now, as summer nears an end. Richie always wakes up first, far too early for MIke’s liking. On off days, he lets Mike sleep in, then slips back into bed to wake him up. Sometimes they fuck, sometimes they make out until Mike’s lips are numb or Arnold demands their attention. Richie always cooks breakfast, and they clean up together, Arnold begging for scraps at their feet. 

Some days they spend on the lake -- Richie’s still a better angler than Mike, although Mike’s been giving him a run for his money their last couple trips out. Other days they work on puzzles or play cards and don’t talk about the fact that the offseason is almost over. Aside from training, it’s been the laziest, least eventful summer Mike’s had in a long time. 

In three days, it’ll come to an end, and Mike can’t help the nagging feeling that this is it -- that summer is over, and his relationship with Richie along with it. 

“Hey,” Richie says, nudging him gently as he puts the last of the clean dishes away. “You ok? You got quiet.”

“Huh?” Mike says, pushing it to the back of his mind. “Sorry, just spacing.”

Richie eyes him carefully, but doesn’t push it, and Mike follows him into the living room with a fresh mug of coffee in one hand. It’s raining today, an annoying drizzle that’s light but steady enough to keep them inside, and Richie turns the TV on, flipping through channels. Mike sits down next to him, pulling his legs up onto the couch and tucking his toes in under Richie’s thighs. 

Richie wraps an arm around MIke’s knees where they’re pulled up and smiles at him. Not for the first time since he got back from DC, Mike swallows around the urge to tell Richie how he feels. He's had countless chances before this one--late nights out on the deck by the firelight; early mornings in bed, wrapped up in one another with Arnold snoring on the floor; dinners out, Richie smiling at him across the table, their ankles tangled under it. But he's stopped himself every time, second-guessing, always unsure of expressing his feelings.

“You haven’t told him yet?” Tom balked a few days ago on the phone. “C’mon, man, what are you waiting for? Summer’s going to be --”

“I know,” MIke cut him off. “I don’t want to talk about it, ok? What’s the point?”

“The _point_ is, you’re in love with the guy.”

“So what?” Mike snapped. “What’s gonna happen, Tom? I tell him I love him, I move back to DC for the season, and then what? Who knows where he’ll even end up. He hasn’t even told me if he’s --”

“Mikey,” Tom said gently. “Look, tell him or don’t tell him, it’s up to you, but Richie -- you know how he is, man. He doesn’t let just anyone in, and you seem to have done a pretty good job of making a place for yourself in his life.”

“It’s just the summer,” Mike said sadly, and ignored Tom’s protests. “I’ll see you next week, yeah?”

“Yeah, Mike. I’ll see ya. Can’t wait.”

“Me neither, “ Mike said. “I’ll call you when I’m on the road.” 

Now, watching Richie sip his coffee, his hair falling into his eyes, Mike wonders if Tom was right. Maybe he should just --

“So my agent’s shopping offers,” Richie says suddenly, eyes on the TV, like it’s nothing. Like it’s not a bombshell, like it’s not something Mike’s been waiting weeks to hear. Richie takes another sip from his mug and drags his fingertip around the rim, staring at his lap and seemingly doing anything he can to avoid Mike’s eyes. 

“That’s -- hey, babe. Look at me.” Mike says. Richie does, and Mike reaches out to brush his hair back from his forehead. “That’s awesome,” Mike tells him, meaning it. “I’m glad. I’m really fucking glad.” 

“It won’t be Washington,” Richie says, as if Mike doesn’t know that, as if they both haven’t been thinking the same damn thing all summer long.

“I know,” Mike replies, and shifts so his feet are on the floor, one arm around Richie’s shoulders, Richie pressed in close to his side. 

They watch an old Western on Richie’s big screen, the rain pattering on the deck outside, and Mike tries not to worry about what this means for them.

They don’t talk about it.

**

The night before Mike leaves Kenora for Kitchener, they have dinner out, tucked in the corner booth of what’s become Mike’s favorite Italian place, shoulder to shoulder. “Arnold’s gonna miss you,” Richie says, once he’s swallowed his last bite and they’re waiting for dessert. He tops off Mike’s glass with the bottle of wine they’d ordered, then refills his own. 

“Just Arnold?” Mike asks, giving Richie a knowing look over the rim of his glass. 

“Who else is gonna feed him all their leftovers?” Richie teases. Mike kicks at his ankle under the table. “Like you need me to say it, babe,” Richie tells him.

Mike blinks, a sudden burst of braveness welling in his chest. “Maybe I do,” he says, and Richie raises an eyebrow at him, clearly surprised. 

“Okay,” Richie says, after a moment, setting his glass on the table and sliding his hand onto Mike’s lap, his palm warm and heavy on Mike’s thigh. His tone goes quiet, more serious. “This summer’s been really fucking great, Latts. It’s gonna be weird waking up without you. Not sure I like it.”

Mike throat is a little tight, so he just nods, afraid his voice will crack if he says anything. 

Richie lowers his voice and leans in a little. “I’m gonna miss the shit outta you, babe. You gotta know that.” 

Mike swallows hard and squeezes Richie’s hand where it’s resting on his leg. “Me too,” he says, and then clears his throat, holding his glass in the air, tilted toward Richie. “This has been the best summer of my life.”

Richie smiles fondly and clinks his glass against Mike’s. “To summer,” he says quietly. Mike misses him already, anticipating what’s ahead for them.

Later that night they stumble into bed, and Mike lets Richie peel him out of his clothes, Richie’s mouth touching every inch of exposed skin as he goes. They kiss like they’re starving for it, and when Richie’s finally inside him, with Mike’s legs wrapped tightly around his waist and his face buried in Mike’s neck, Richie breaks. The clouds have long since cleared, and the moon is so bright in the sky that the room is bathed in cool light. One minute they’re kissing frantically, Mike’s hands clawing at Richie’s back, and the next Richie’s mouth is at Mike’s ear, whispering, “I love you, Mike, fuck, _I love you_.”

Mike’s cock jerks between them a few seconds later, and Richie holds him close as he shudders through his orgasm. Mike almost laughs, thinking about what a cliche this is, that he came as soon as Richie said the words he wasn’t sure he’d ever hear. 

When Richie comes, Mike drags his fingertips up and down his spine, featherlight, and finally whispers, “I love you too.”

**

When he wakes up, Richie’s side of the bed is cool. It’s nothing new -- Richie’s always awake first -- but it makes Mike’s stomach clench anxiously. He sits up, the covers pooling around his waist, and looks out over the lake one last time from his spot in Richie’s bed. 

“Hey,” comes Richie’s voice from the doorway, and Mike turns his head, smiling at Richie holding two mugs of coffee in his hand. “Sleep ok?”

“Yeah,” Mike says through a morning yawn, and Richie laughs, making his way into the room to hand Mike his coffee. 

“I’ll make breakfast,” he says softly, looking down at his own mug. “But I wanted to, uh. Talk to you.” He pauses for a moment, and Mike tries not to break out into a cold sweat. “About last night.”

His heart plummets to his stomach as Richie sits down next to him, the dip of the bed making the hot liquid in Mike’s mug slosh over the brim and drip on to his fingers. The slight burn is a welcome distraction from the thoughts racing through his head. 

“It’s ok,” Mike says quickly, trying to head Richie off at the pass.

“What’s ok?” Richie asks slowly. 

“I mean, y’know. If you just. Said it -- that -- in the heat of the moment or whatever,” Mike grits out. The thought of it makes him feel sick, but he’s not about to let that show, if he can help it. 

Richie stares at him. Mike finds himself wishing he could pull the covers up over his head, or even better, disappear altogether.

“You think I didn’t mean it?” Richie asks, voice low. 

“No! No? I mean, I just -- “

“We haven’t talked about the future all summer, you know that?” Richie asks, cutting him off. “We haven’t talked about hockey, or about you going to DC, or about me being done. Or not done. Or whatever.”

“I know,” Mike says softly. 

“I’m not a big talker,” Richie says, and Mike laughs.

“I know that too,” Mike says, and Richie shoves him lightly, laughing too. 

“It was nice having you here,” Richie says. “It was _great_. You reminded me that some things -- a _lot_ of things -- are more important than playing hockey.”

“Like what?” Mike asks, amazed by how earnest Richie sounds, how determined.

“Like getting to fish all day,” Richie says, setting his mug on the bedside table. “And walks with Arnold.” He takes Mike’s coffee from his hands carefully, setting it next to his own. “Family.” He scoots closer, cups the cap of Mike’s shoulder in his hand, sliding his fingers over Mike’s collarbone to settle on the back of his neck, where his hair has gotten long. “You.”

Mike ducks his head to hide the sudden flush on his cheeks, and Richie touches two fingers to his jaw, tilting his face back up until their eyes meet. 

“I love you,” Richie says, and in the light of day, away from the heat of the moment, Mike can see that he means it. 

“I love you too,” Mike replies, a little hoarse, and then they’re both smiling at each other, wide and bright and _happy_. 

“I’m signing with Minnesota,” Richie says. It should ruin the moment; it should remind Mike of all the reasons he can’t have this, of all the reasons why it has to end with the summer.

But it doesn’t.

“You gonna teach me how to ice fish?” Mike asks. Richie laughs, threading their fingers together and bringing Mike’s knuckles to his lips. 

Arnold chooses that moment to burst in, leaping onto the bed and shoving himself between them, licking first Mike’s face, then Richie’s. Mike kisses the top of his head and Arnold settles against Mike’s hip, tucking his nose under his tail and huffing loudly as he curls up. 

“My flight leaves at 3,” Mike says, and Richie reaches around him to set the alarm before climbing back under the covers and curling his body around Mike’s. 

“We’ve got plenty of time,” Richie says softly, and Mike looks out over the lake, at the early morning sun dancing on the water, and closes his eyes.

**

Mike unlocks the apartment door and pushes his way inside, dragging his bag behind him. He can hear the faint sound of the TV playing in the background, and Tom must have ordered pizza, because the scent of it hits Mike’s nose, making his stomach growl.

“Tom?” he calls, leaving his bag by the door and kicking his shoes off. 

“In here!” Tom calls, and Mike follows his voice into the living room, grinning when he sees Tom sprawled out on the couch, a plate full of pizza crusts balancing on his chest. 

“Hey,” Mike says, and Tom jumps to his feet, the plate toppling to the floor. Tom narrowly avoids stepping on the mess in his haste to get to Mike, and Mike claps him on the back when Tom pulls him into a tight hug, shaking him lightly. 

“Fuckin’ missed you, man. Welcome back.”

“Missed you too, bud,” Mike says, pushing Tom out of the way so he can sit down on the couch. “How was your summer?”

“No way, Mikey, you first. How was _yours_?” 

As if on cue, Mike’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out and swipes over the screen to open the text from Richie. It’s a picture of Richie and Arnold on the boat, their faces pressed close together. Richie’s smiling, his eyes squinting into the sun. He’s so handsome, it’s almost hard to believe he’s Mike’s. _From Kenora with love_ , the text says. 

Mike can’t stop his heart from skipping a beat. It’ll be a few weeks before they see each other again, maybe more. Camp starts soon, and Richie will be busy fitting himself into his new team, but Mike has plans to visit Minnesota before the season starts, and the Wild play in DC in December. It’s not Kenora, but they’ll make it work. Wherever Richie is, it’ll probably take a few less fucking plane rides to get there, at least.

“It was good, man,” he tells Tom, saving the picture as his background. ” It was really fuckin’ good.”


End file.
